Dealing with the wounds of a broken home, the perils of newly wedded bliss at the age of 21 (an immature 21), clashing with the body of Christ, our brothers and sisters who didn't know what to do with an unchurched heathen who had never been taught to dress modestly or find the Book of Obadiah, the sting of infertility when all I ever wanted was to be a mother and create the family that I wish I could've been a part of, the delightful disaster of bringing home a 5, 3, and 2 year old that I had never met and calling them mine only after a previous failed adoption of 2 sweet brothers that I will never see again this side of heaven, having my sweet mom taken away from me when I was just 29, not by death but by a disease that does not allow her to ever be who she was again all the while looking and sounding just like her--that voice and face that adored me/sacrificed for me/was my sweet mama. Sounding just like her but not leaving a trace of her.
And then something amazing happened.
I got pregnant. After 10 years of infertility. 10 years of never conceiving and moving forward in so much joy with my ridiculously fulfilled life as a mother of 3 fabulous kids, I got stinkin' pregnant.
And that is what finally broke me.
After all of that. A sweet baby. A gift from God. A treasure in every way. My sweet miracle boy tore me to pieces.
You see, God had answered my prayers. My long ago prayers. My alone prayers. My often secret prayers. He did it. He was faithful. He didn't have to. But He did it anyway.
And this special gift who just turned 2 and is the funniest most incredible 2-year-old on the planet was not only a gift, but a shovel digging up every root of pride inside me. Every sense that I was pretty amazing at anything ever or that my life was so blessed because I 'deserved' any of it.
Because in all my glory and intelligence and wisdom and experience, I could not do it. I could not get that baby to sleep and be content. And I wanted to be 'perfect' at motherhood so bad. I wanted to fulfill that long-standing need to have 'that' family that my 10 year old self had dreamed up all those years ago.
And not only could I not do it, but God did not help me with it either. I cried out to Him. I had a strong relationship with Him. I knew where to turn in a crisis. I ran to Him and He did not enlighten me. It did not get better.
I was so beat down, exhausted, helpless, embarrassed that a crying/sleepless baby could shake me like it did. After all, look at all I had been through and all the wisdom God had poured out on me. Shouldn't I have been able to stay strong? Nope.
My dream of this family. My idol. My pride of being able to keep the faith amidst pain/grief/stress--shattered.
AND THAT WAS THE POINT.
An utterly beat down and ultimately humbled person in every area of her life. This is my testimony.
Happy to report that our faithful God blessed us with another sweet baby, a girl. My final chapter in motherhood...Lord willing.
And, a chance to try again. Not to attain the perfection that alluded me with my son, but maybe to work towards staying humble before Him and relying not on my own abilities but on Him. Isn't there a verse about that?